


Little Bits of Love

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon quarantine AU sort of, Clothes, F/M, jonsakinkweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24939112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: Jon remembered once upon a time when he’d thought derisively of the idea of spending time making something so seemingly pointless as fancy smallclothes that few, if any, others would see, but now, as Sansa stood before him in her own handiwork, he was forced to admit he’d quite changed that stance.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 114
Collections: JonsaKinks





	Little Bits of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Jonsa Kink Week 2020--Day 5: Clothes

It was late when Jon returned to their chambers, groomed and bathed and dressed in fresh clothing, his damp hair beginning to curl again as he stood in the chilly hallway. The entire process took longer than ever now that his hair had grown out and his beard thickened, but he’d had no time to worry about having it cut and Winterfell’s barber had fallen ill. The only other person he trusted was Sansa, and he couldn’t overcome the guilt of occupying her precious time with his vanity. 

Jon paused to knock before entering and waited for Sansa’s permission outside the door. 

“One moment!” 

A couple of kitchen maids finished with their work for the evening passed while he lingered there. He nodded politely to them as they skirted by along the corridor walls; it had become routine to keep their distance from one another with the winter chill sweeping through Winterfell and the rest of the north. 

The seasons came but once a year now, so this winter would be nothing like those past, stretching for years on end, but it still seemed to last an eternity with every day bringing new darkness, frigid temperatures, sheets of ice, swaths of snow, and more sickness along with it. Disused halls and spare rooms had been cleared to fit more beds within Winterfell’s warm walls, and even those did not suffice to chase away the cold, with fires fed hourly and heaps of blankets and furs to soothe those shivering in their beds. 

Anything that could be repurposed was taken and transformed. Facing a much different kind of battle, splintered shields were broken down for their timbers to fill the numerous grates, and instead of forging swords, the smiths poured their molten metal to shape large cauldrons for washing and an array of pots for cooking soups and stews. Old worn tapestries were stripped from the walls, their images long faded and now unrecognizable, and cleaned to wrap around straw mattresses, while women cut the seams from their pretty gowns and leather jerkins not needed in times of peace were sewn together to create insulated bed coverings. 

Jon himself spent his days chopping wood to fuel the fires, distributing items to those in need, and generally doing a poor imitation of reassuring the people the way Sansa herself would have. 

“The Starks have protected us for thousands of years,” some of the elder folk said to soothe worries and quell any grumblings. “There’s nowhere better to weather this storm. It’ll be no different now with Queen Sansa.” 

Hearing of that faith always made pride bubble up inside of him. He knew they spoke true, and it always served as a reminder that he was truly a Stark now, too. 

At last Sansa opened the door, and he entered to see a roaring fire in the grate, yarn and knitting needles spread out across the settee in front of it, and a stack of completed thick woolen sweaters and gloves, colorful scarves and socks in all sorts of sizes sat beside the place where Sansa had spent most of her day. 

Despite her initial resistance to the idea and her insistence that this was when she was needed now more than ever, her councilors and advisors all agreed Sansa should not carry on with her duties as usual and put herself at risk given the circumstances. The maesters and kitchen maids who knew of her condition had chased their queen out of the halls themselves when Sansa had attempted to make her rounds to bring bread and distribute teas with healing herbs and provide comfort to the sick. The people of the North understood too, much to Jon’s relief, once they received the news that with the spring would come another Stark. 

Sequestered, Sansa found any way she could to make herself useful: keeping track of the stores and sums, writing ravens to the other houses in the south for supplies, and reading all she could about past spells of a similar sort and learning all she could about preventions and possible cures. Most of her time, though, she spent sewing and knitting, all sorts of blankets and clothing filling the basket she kept beside her, appearing each day with such an expediency it seemed as though they’d been spun out of thin air or wrought into existence with magic itself. 

His chest filled with pride at the sight each time he saw it, and tonight was no different, the basket not even visible beneath the stacks of simple woolen blankets Sansa had knotted together over the course of the day. There were more reasons than he could count why he loved Sansa, certainly more than he’d ever be able to properly put into words—her strength and courage, her sound counsel and intuition, her wit and beauty—but her compassion and charity, her selflessness and generosity, especially for people who had known so little of those, might have been foremost among them. 

Many of those nights Sansa had already fallen asleep by late hour he finished with his duties, or even on those he was fortunate enough to catch her still awake, more often than not he simply fell into bed and nodded off after merely exchanging a few pleasantries, having risen earlier than the sun to replenish the grates and ensure breakfast made it from the kitchens to all those in need. It was not the kind of life many expected a king and queen to lead, but he thought the sacrifices they had made so far were small compared to what they could have been. 

Still, he wished for a return to normalcy, for freedom unburdened by worry, for summer itself. He missed days that held no more challenge than besting a few of his men in the training yard or attending council meetings or solving a couple minor lords’ petty squabbles. He missed walking leisurely up on the ramparts and picnics in the godswood and bathing in the hot pools and other things among those, too… the kinds of things that had led to the babe in Sansa’s belly. 

When he looked back at Sansa, at first he thought she had already dressed for bed as usual, until he noticed the absence of her nightdress beneath her dressing gown. Jon glanced back and forth between her and the fire, noting it was not overly ablaze. Had the fever stricken her, too? His stomach dropped, the bowl of stew and stale bread he’d scarfed down for dinner roiling.

“Have you been suffering the chills?” 

That was how it started, with uncontrollable shivers, a spiking temperature, spells swinging between sweltering and freezing, and then the rest followed, worse than that, things he didn’t even want to permit himself to think about. 

“Oh! No! No, I’m fine, I haven’t been feeling ill at all,” Sansa said, though by the scarlet her cheeks turned, Jon was not so reassured. 

“Perhaps we ought to summon the maester? Just to make certain?” he suggested. “It couldn’t do any harm.

“No!” she said hurriedly. “It’s not—I’m not—It’s nothing like that.” 

Jon nodded, but he would have to find time to approach the maester on the morrow and ask if the babe could affect those sorts of things and inquire all about those kinds of matters to be prepared if such a situation did arise, even if it would be a bit embarrassing to admit his own ignorance. 

“It’s… I have something for you.” She smiled tremulously. “I just thought… I thought with all the extra bits… I thought I ought to make something for you.” 

He was always eager to receive Sansa’s gifts, always grateful, and he wore them with pride, ever since she’d given him the very first one, the cloak she made to resemble Ned Stark’s at Castle Black, what seemed like eons ago. “You didn’t have to…” 

His words trailed away as he searched for the gift, his brow furrowing in confusion when he didn’t see it in her hands, or resting atop the chair beside her, nor laid out on their bed, and then his voice failed completely as she untied and opened her robe to reveal just her smallclothes beneath, if such a utilitarian term could be used to describe what she wore. 

“Even the little pieces were too pretty for me to discard,” she said, though he scarcely heard. 

Jon would be the first to admit he hardly paid much attention to Sansa’s smallclothes, vastly preferring what laid beneath instead, but it was there his eyes went now, to the garments fashioned in a mosaic of colors, the remnants of expensive silks from the lands along the Jade Sea, satin from Qohor, and lace from Myr. The top part barely covered her breasts, and the bottom was little more than tiny strips of silk sewn together held up by lace strings, so they did not appear very functional in his opinion, but what did he really know anyway? 

“Jon?”

He realized he had been simply staring, and he closed his mouth before he made a further fool of himself. “I, um…” 

“I know it was frivolous, not befitting of a queen, but—”

He remembered once upon a time when he’d thought derisively of the idea of spending time making something so seemingly pointless as fancy smallclothes that few, if any, others would see, but now he was forced to admit he’d quite changed that stance. “I love it.” 

“You do?” 

“I do. And you.” He stepped towards her, his hands wrapping around her hips to pull her closer, and she tilted her chin up towards him, and he needed no more encouragement than that to lean in and kiss her. 

Sansa eagerly responded to his affections, twining her fingers in his hair to tug him closer and dragging her tongue along his lower lip. He pulled away after a few of those heated, open-mouthed kisses, letting his lips slide down her jaw, her throat, to her collarbone, and then pushed her dressing gown off her shoulders to the floor. 

He knew his attention should have been focused on admiring her handiwork, particularly as now up close he could see the detail of the embroidery, the fine threads of each swatch of fabric, but Jon found himself as overwhelmed by her own beauty as ever. He palmed her full breasts before his hands slipped lower, spanning across her stomach still flat, not belying what swelled beneath yet, and all of it rendered him speechless again.

“Shame you just put all of those clothes on only to take them off right away,” Sansa said, but she didn’t seem disappointed about it at all. 

Instead, delight played across her face as she reached up to unlace his tunic and remove it, and then moved lower, loosening the ties on his breeches so all he had to do was step out of his boots and let them fall away, and he followed Sansa as she led him to where the furs were spread across their bed. 

Sansa climbed onto it, kneeling there, beckoning him towards her with her lip caught between her teeth and her eyes sparkling in invitation. He could see her nipples harden through the thin fabric, and that her flush of desire ran all the way up from her chest, or perhaps that had been left by the scrub of his beard, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he didn’t think he could imagine anything more enticing as he joined her there, nothing but her undergarments separating them now. 

They hadn’t been intimate since she had shared her news with him after seeing the maester a few weeks ago, and yet it felt like a lifetime had passed since then, the very nature of time having seemed to become warped with days stretching long and heavy with responsibilities. He hadn’t wished to push, nor had he been exceptionally keen himself with other duties on the forefront of his mind, but his body had certainly not forgotten and had been rather aware of that passage of time as he felt his cock throb awkwardly in the narrow space between them. 

Sansa giggled as it brushed against her, and he resumed their kisses. This time he brushed over her undergarments, enjoying each of the different textures in turn, the cool smoothness of the silk, the sleek feel of the satin, the delicate ridges of the lace straps, until he returned to the warmth and softness of Sansa’s skin. Her breasts felt larger in his hands, but the curve of her belly was barely there, as though she’d merely eaten a large feast, if he hadn’t known any better, but he was still awed by her, struck for the thousandth time that Sansa was truly his, that she had given him so many things he never thought he’d have, already given him more than he deserved, a home and a family. 

Sansa leaned back against the pillows—he could have sworn she’d sewn more of those, too, in her time secluded away—and he followed along, chasing her lips with his. Jon fumbled with the ties on the smallclothes, not wanting to risk ripping the delicate material, and reluctant to break their contact for even the briefest of moments. 

“Just leave it,” Sansa said quickly, so he swiped the bit of fabric out of the way, and that was even better, because he was equally as wroth to do anything that would involve leaving the cradle of Sansa’s thighs. 

The silk there was already soaked through, and he groaned, pressing his forehead to Sansa’s as he drew his fingers through her slick folds. 

“I’ve been waiting here all day for you,” she whispered, grinning up at him, and her words and her smile would have undone him if he had not already been so close to the edge, his fortitude far more in danger of unraveling than either of her thin, fragile garments. 

He slid into her easily despite the flimsy barrier between them and gasped at the feeling of her tight, wet heat closing around the length of his cock. Sansa clenched around him and he grunted, a sound as coarse and undignified as Sansa was refined and elegant. He distracted himself with anything that could keep his mind from giving in to the feeling of release already threatening, already starting to wind dangerously, focusing in turn on how Sansa’s nails scraped down his back, the feel of her hair in his hands as soft as the silk that rubbed against his chest, and the way that sensation seemed to soothe scars from long ago. 

Jon hadn’t bother to bring the furs up over them, heat enough created in the friction between them, and it only grew as he quickened, Sansa’s legs wrapping tighter around his hips, drawing him deeper, urging him on. He would make the sacrifice of ruining her pretty panties now if it meant bringing about her pleasure, but luckily that wasn’t necessarily. She needed scarcely more than for him to brush against her, and after a few more thrusts he felt Sansa squeeze around him followed by the fluttering of her peak, and only then did he spill, holding Sansa close until he caught his breath again. 

“Do you happen to have any more of those scraps lying around?” he asked, his skin cooling in the dry air as he grew drowsy beside her. 

“Do you wish for me to make you a matching set?” Sansa smirked. 

“I wish for you to do as your heart desires,” he murmured, and as though she always knew the want of his very own, she kissed him again. 

Months went by and winter ebbed away, the illness that had plagued Winterfell and the North thankfully along with it. 

Sansa’s hands kept busy while her belly grew round, and it turned out she did make him something after all. She found a few of the remnants to make him her favor, a simple handkerchief to take along when someday he would go visiting to pay his respects to the rest of the houses of the North once normalcy returned. Next came a small quilt, a patchwork of squares from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms and most of the cities that laid across the Narrow Sea too, just large enough to spread to the edges of a cradle, and then a tiny dress for little Lya’s first nameday. 

Never one to permit good material to go to waste, though, Sansa kept all the little pieces and used them to line the hems of her sleeves, to cover a rip in a skirt here and there, to pattern an otherwise drab dress. The trend became somewhat fashionable after others began to take notice of the creativity of the Queen in the North, and soon it spread across the kingdom. It was a strange sight at first, to see brief glimpses of satin against the more traditional wool, bright strips of silk laying beneath a threadbare dress, and samite squares adorning the clothing of ladies from the rest of the North and beyond, but it always brought a smile to Sansa’s face. 

And each time they spotted a flash of color against garb of grey or black, or patterns of a vivid variety, or even a lacy strip of some kind of peeking out from the neckline of a gown, Jon would glance her way, and sometimes Sansa would wink back, but always in that moment they would share their bit of a secret.


End file.
